Contents of this Issue

Navigation

Page 69 of 148

LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 8.14 51
When we frst spoke, over the phone, Owen told me he
wanted to see something like Old Louisville's Burger Boy
Diner in Portland. "Tey're opening a gelato place. Do you
know how many people I've had to explain what gelato is?"
he said.
"I disagree about Hillbilly Tea," Kunnecke says. "I think
you need a blend. You need the greasy spoon for folks who
are here. But you also need things that draw other kinds of
people. Te healthiest communities are diverse communi-
ties. When you have a neighborhood where people of all
economic groups live together, you have a dynamic neigh-
borhood." I ask her about gentrifcation. "Tat's a problem
all over the country," she says. "Everyone misses the point
that that is the natural inclination when folks come in
and try to rebuild and take over old places. In a place like
Portland, where people have very strong views and love
their community, it's possible to be diferent." She looks
at Brodarick and Owen, smiles. "Don't you all be running
people of," she says.
B
irdy the cat curls up under my chair in the Faulkner
Gallery. Tim Faulkner, gallery director Margaret
Archambault and I are sitting around a small table
in the middle of the vast main gallery, the heart of the
26,000-square-foot building in Portland's old warehouse
district. Tirteen studios take up the front and a 1,500-per-
son-capacity event space dominates the back. McQuixote
Books and Cofee will soon open at the gallery's entrance.
Faulkner looks at the cat, says, "She's like everybody else;
she comes in here and hangs out for hours." Abstract paint-
ings on velvet hang in the main gallery. Tey look celestial,
galaxies hanging in the choked air. Tere's no air-condi-
tioning yet. A series on Greek myths catches my attention.
Prometheus, Lady Godiva, Hercules. Ten I start looking at
tags instead of art: $6,000, $4,000, $12,000.
"Te general resident in Portland isn't going to come in
and spend $1,000 on a painting," Faulkner says.
"A person with $1,000 in their pocket and a person with
one dollar in their pocket can appreciate the same painting
equally," explains Archambault.
Te two lean back in their chairs, nose rings glinting.
Faulkner runs his hand over the tattoo of birds fying up his
neck. Te gallery/concert venue/event space is not a place
for fne wine and cheese. It's all a part of Faulkner's mantra:
I can do what I want. He can make a gallery without pre-
tention, he can smoke in his own building and he can move
from Butchertown to Portland. So can Archambault. Tey
both live in the neighborhood.
"It was daunting. We had to fnd something quickly. Tis
is a far better location. And why not?" Faulkner says. "Tis
is going to happen no matter what, whether Gill does it or
somebody else."
"Everybody said we were nuts," Archambault says.
"When we opened our frst show, on Feb. 23, we were
packed. More work sold than ever before. Collectors come,
and they keep coming. Tere's a whole city over here that
we've ignored. Since we've been here, people keep coming
in to check it out."
"And it's not something like, 'Oh, that's unique; let's go.'
It's totally diferent. People are coming because they want to
come," Faulkner says.
Archambault leans forward, rests her elbows on her
knees. "Te rumors and the stigma is there. You think
you're going to get shot. Well, no one has bothered us.
I have had more negative experiences in the Highlands.
People look at the dilapidated buildings and use that as
a visual cue, but in reality, there's an opportunity here to
expand our city," she says.
Te gallery is holding a beneft for the Portland Neigh-
borhood House, a nonproft that works with Portlanders
ages six weeks to 100. ("Tere are kids who won't get to eat
otherwise, and they live in the shadow of the Aegon Build-
ing," Neighborhood House development director Denise
Spears says, mentioning the downtown skyscraper that
recently changed its name to 400 West Market.)
"Everyone knows that public
schools across the country are losing
funding for the arts. How much
artistic education do you think these
kids are getting?" Faulkner says.
"We want to engage the community.
And, so far, I haven't had anyone
from Portland come up to me and
say, 'Get the f--k out.' Tere are no
real sit-down restaurants in Portland. With the exception
of the gas stations on 27th Street, there's no place to get
a cup of cofee. Louisville likes to tout itself on keeping
local, but this is an opportunity. If we don't do it, some
corporate entity is going to sweep in here. Is that what the
neighborhood wants? Keep Louisville weird? Don't just
buy the goddamn bumper sticker. Portland deserves to
stand on its own two feet. Some people aren't supportive,
but that's everywhere. 'I don't want you coming into my
neighborhood and changing it.' Well, I'm not trying to.
And I don't care. I can go where I want."
I park my car on the corner of 34th Street and Rudd
Avenue. It's midday. My car's thermometer reads 90 de-
grees. I sweat through my shirt as I wander past Portland
Elementary School toward Cedar Grove Court. Te only
people outside are three young boys who ignore me. I pass
backyard treehouses, a rainbow fag, charcoal grills. A suit
of armor shines on a front porch. No chain-link barbed-
wire fences. Te shotguns here have fresh paint. One on
Northwestern Parkway looks like a hacienda. Te homes
have only one thing in common: Almost all of them have
no-trespassing signs. Te rest have warnings reading,
"Beware of Dog."
Te three boys shoot me a look and disappear over the
foodwall berm. I sit down on the curb, stare at the hill.
"Tat's a big no-no in Portland," a lifelong resident once
told me. "You don't go over the foodwall." I think about
what Brodarick and Denham and Owen and many more
Portlanders told me. You'd be corrected by your neighbors as
quick as your parents. Ten I think about wearing a helmet
when I ride my bicycle. No way they're from Portland. I am
not a neighbor. I am an outsider. Tis is going to happen
no matter what, Faulkner said. Don't hold your breath,
Hopewell said. I imagine people riding bicycles down the
deserted, baking street. Tey wave to one another. A few
stop at the corner and drink bottled water. Tey ride and
wave and drink.
I can't tell if they wear helmets.
"'I don't want you coming into my
neighborhood and changing it.'
Well, I'm not trying to. And I don't
care. I can go where I want," says
Tim Faulkner.